Checkmate
by rewrittengirl
Summary: Holmes is smart. Holmes is very smart. But as a string of murders evolves in London, a new story begins to unfold, and a new game begins. He is put to the test by the infamous Jack the Ripper, and neither will stop until it's checkmate.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Checkmate

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (Leffie) and Yours Truly-Jill the Ripper (Izzi)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 834 words.

**Rating:** T for Teen

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Detective Abberline, Molly, an OC, prostitutes, and a lot of suspects.

**Pairing(s):** Not really any pairings. Sherlock/Watson bromance, that's all.

**Genre:** Horror, mystery, thriller, adventure, drama

**Warning(s):** Murder, prostitutes, sexual themes

**Contains:** Jack the Ripper and the canonical five (god, that sounds like some sort of band, xD), history lessons (since this is partially being written by a ripperologist), a sexy OC by the name of Victor Griffiths who has the face of a god (read: Richard Armitage), more awesomeness than you can handle... Yep, I think that that's about it. 8D

**Notes:** HERE IS THE SUPER AMAZING SLIGHTLY CROSSOVER FIC I PROMISED YOU! This was written by me and my best friend Jill/Izzi, who I dedicated chapter 10 of Written in the Stars to. I really hope you guys enjoy this, we worked really hard on it! The prologue is entirely written by Jill, but the next chapter is by the both of us. Read and review!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3 I also don't own Victor Griffiths, that's my best friend Izzi's character.

**Summary: **Sherlock Holmes is smart. Sherlock Holmes is really smart. But as a string of murders evolves in London's red-light district, a new story begins to unfold, and a new game begins. He is put to the test by the infamous Jack the Ripper, and neither will stop until it's checkmate. But, remember: the easiest answer is usually the right one.

* * *

><p>"Fuck it," she said, flicking the ash at the butt of her cigarette and pushing off of the wall she had been leaning against.<p>

"It doesn't have to be like this." His voice was deep and calming, but the tone of it was straining. He was trying too hard to be reassuring. She didn't like that in a man; a guy should be able to not only tell you everything was alright, but to _know_ that everything was alright.

"It's always been like this. I take the money, I drink it up, and I move on to the next cock."

"Polly-" She'd turned her back to him to adjust her holey fishnets. His words stopped, as if he had been expecting her to interject. It took her a moment to compose herself and swallow the knot in her throat.

"Look, I'll be fine." A reassuring smile that was anything but reassuring. "I've got this brill hat to keep me safe, yeah?" She raised a hand to tip the brim of her knitted hat—five dollars at some unmemorable department store. Probably the most expensive thing she'd bought in three weeks.

The click of her heels faded into the distance, unstoppable through the rain, even at his calls for her to come back. There wasn't a choice. It was getting freezing on nights now, and there was no chance of sleeping in the park like that. Putting herself up at a hotel had become a nightly feat, and definitely not a cheap one. Now it was half-past three, and she had spent the money she'd already earned that day on buying multiple rounds for her whole posse. Stupid. She did stupid things when she was drunk.

She pulled herself off of the high street, turning a small corner and beginning down a street clearly labeled "DURWARD ". There was a fog clinging to her heels, and she walked a bit slower, a drunken smile coming to her face. She began to shake her boots, chasing away the icy rings before they drifted back—it took her a moment to realize that the steady, sure steps echoing through the street were not her own.

Her head raised and she stumbled, glancing over her shoulder. "James? James, you need to lemme alone... I told ya'-" An abrupt pause. The man's figure was blotted around the edges, a light shadow falling into his face. He wore a long overcoat that reminded her of those detectives in old television shows, and a fedora. Both of them were as black as the edging night around them. "...Well, you certainly ain't James."

The man in the fedora slowly shook his head.

She turned to him fully, tilting her head with a cheeky smile. "Certainly are a looker, you. Interested in a little fun, dear?"

The footsteps started up again, approaching her. Her eyes roamed down, to the briefcase he was carrying.

"A workin' man," she said, her giggle slightly nervous.

Finally, he spoke: "You could say that." The voice was rusty and sharp, like an old razor. He wasn't right, this man. He needed to loosen up.

"Well, right down here we could find a-"

"No." With a flicking gesture, the man waved a gloved hand in the direction of a small indentation in the wall of buildings, blocked by a wooden gate. There was a yard of some sort back there, she remembered.

"Right... well, if you ain't got much time we could go there," she agreed, hiding her disdain. It was always a disappointment when men only wanted a quick fuck, especially in an alley. Getting on her knees in all that shit and litter was a nightmare. But she needed this. "It won't cost hardly nothin', promise."

He set his briefcase down when they stood in front of the doors, taking her face gently in both of his hands. She wasn't used to that at all—actually, it was doubtful that _any_ of them even looked at her while she pleasured them—and so she was stuck there, gazing up at him, perplexed. One of his hands lifted her chin very precisely, while the other slowly slid into her hair, nudging at her new hat. It took her clouded mind a moment to register that he wanted it off.

"Oh," she said, grinning goofily at him, "oh, you like my hair?" She reached up and grabbed the brim, beginning to pull it off.

"Yeah," he replied gruffly, "I love it."

With one rough motion from him, her body was jolted and the side of her face slammed against the wooden gate. She barely had the chance to register the sudden move than she felt a sharp pain in her brow bone. His hands were on her- all over her face, one covering her mouth fast and the other clamping down on her windpipe. There was nothing but his hands- there was nothing but the pressure, nothing but the throbbing red light that blurred her vision.

And then... there was nothing at all.


	2. The Lodger

**Title:** Checkmate

**Author:** Rewrittengirl (Leffie) and Yours Truly-Jill the Ripper (Izzi)

**Fandom:** Sherlock (TV series)

**Wordcount:** 1,508 words.

**Rating:** T for Teen

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Detective Abberline, Molly, an OC, prostitutes, and a lot of suspects.

**Pairing(s):** Not really any pairings. Sherlock/Watson bromance, that's all.

**Genre:** Horror, mystery, thriller, adventure, drama

**Warning(s):** Murder, prostitutes, sexual themes

**Contains:** Jack the Ripper and the canonical five (god, that sounds like some sort of band, xD), history lessons (since this is partially being written by a ripperologist), a sexy OC by the name of Victor Griffiths who has the face of a god (read: Richard Armitage), more awesomeness than you can handle... Yep, I think that that's about it. 8D

**Notes:** Well, we just finished the first chapter anywho, so we're going to go ahead and post it! Hope you guys love it!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3 I also don't own Victor Griffiths, that's my best friend Izzi's character.

**Summary: **Sherlock Holmes is smart. Sherlock Holmes is really smart. But as a string of murders evolves in London's red-light district, a new story begins to unfold, and a new game begins. He is put to the test by the infamous Jack the Ripper, and neither will stop until it's checkmate. But, remember: the easiest answer is usually the right one.

* * *

><p>"John, where's my skull?"<p>

"I don't know where your skull is, Sherlock."

"MRS. HUDSON! WHERE IS MY SKULL!"

"Do you really need the thing anyway? Honestly."

"Of course I do. Don't be stupid."

John glared over the frantic detective's way, flipping his paper down and setting it on his lap. "You anger me sometimes..."

Sherlock looked under the couch cushions, under the settee, by the window sill, in the kettle on the stove (though only the Lord knows how it'd fit in there), grumbling all the way. "I should like to think I anger you all the time..." he huffed.

The morning was, unsurprisingly, damp. A very light breeze had flung itself through London earlier, blowing the morning dew off with the few leaves that had already turned. It wasn't a lasting thing, though; the weather was perhaps _too_ unpredictable in the city. Fog in the wee hours, rain at the break of dawn, wind, fog, and then more rain. Mix it up a bit and... you may get a typical London week.

However, this particular Autumn morning was different. Through the dew and light drizzle, the fog had stayed intact, sticking-no, _clinging_-to the pavement as if for lifeblood. Not startlingly odd behavior, but curious all the same. Of course, 'curious' was what Sherlock Holmes did best.

Said very curious man scuttled over to John's chair, moving the doctor roughly and firmly out of the way. "I bet you're sitting on it..." he mumbled.

"I'm not _sitting _on it Sherlock!" He glared at his friend, knocking and punching at him. "That's com_pletely _ridiculous!"

Sherlock grinned passingly at him, moving over to the fire place to perhaps hunt among the ashes for a skull that was clearly no where in sight. "Mrs. HUDSON!" he suddenly called. "Where. Is. My. SKULL?"

He was answered with a light thumping noise on the stairs, followed by a click as the door was opened and the woman herself made her way through. Mrs. Hudson carried a rubbish bag in tow, which she was pawing through.

"I don't know what you boys are up to, but here-" She carefully picked out the remains of Holmes' skull, holding it carefully between her thumb and forefinger. "-Is this what you were looking for, Sherlock dear?" With an unassuming smile, she held it out for him.

Sherlock flipped his head toward the woman, his hair bouncing gaily, though his face was the exact opposite. It displayed such a look of deep and utter remorse that John couldn't help but go "awww" in his mind. The poor, crushed man dropped to his knees at Mrs. Hudson's feet, weeping for his fallen friend. Well... He says friend.

"Frank! Whyyyyyy?" he cried like a child. John rolled his eyes, and smacked hm on the head with the paper.

"Get up, you dolt. I'll get you a new skull."

Sherlock huffed, picking himself up an taking the bag from his landlady, glaring slightly and cradling the bag with care. "It won't be the same..." he mumbled, looking into the bag and shuffling to the kitchen.

"Have I done something?" Mrs. Hudson chirped, craning her neck to watch Sherlock's retreat. Before John could even chuckle, the slightly open door was knocked on yet again. "My, you two will be hosting a _party_ once we're done with you," she tutted, turning around instinctively to answer the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" exclaimed the voice from the doorway. John recognized the speaker as Mrs. Hudson's newest lodger, Mr. Griffiths. The man had seemingly popped onto her doorstep from nowhere, with a wad of cash and nowhere to go. He'd been eagerly helping make the flat downstairs a great deal more presentable in the month or so he'd been there, but Watson had never really had the chance to speak to him and he doubted that Holmes had even noticed his existence after moving day.

"Victor, Victor, come _in_. Don't just stand out there." The man looked unsure for a moment, glancing to John, before following the woman's orders. Technically, it was _still_ her house.

She fussed over him, picking dried paint off of his rolled sleeves. "Er, hi!" Mr. Griffiths greeted John, glancing down at his landlady rather nervously.

John looked over to the kitchen, where the disgruntled detective sat at the table, trying to piece his dear friend Frank together with superglue. He shook his head, rolling his eyes and turned back to the new lodger. He moved confidently over to the man and stuck out his hand. "John Watson." He nodded curtly with a slight smile. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"Shame," the man returned, an amiable smile spreading across his face as he shook John's hand. "Victor Griffiths." Mr. Griffiths appeared to be a bit worn-down, probably from the work he was doing downstairs, but it didn't detract from his looks; he had what their landlady had referred to as "dark charms," with wavy black hair and friendly eyes of a very intense light blue. He also towered over both her _and_ John, though he hung back a bit, making it less noticeable.

Mrs. Hudson had since quit her nitpicking, and was gathering up the filled rubbish bin when Victor let go of John's hand to look back at her.

"Oh, and Mrs. Hudson, there's someone at the door for you," the lodger added.

She sighed. "Of course- there always is!" the little woman murmured as she headed toward the door.

"Oh, and Mrs. Hudson-"

"I don't have the paint scraper, Victor!" she called back from the hallway. There was a moment of silence before Victor chuckled slightly.

"Guess she's not the only detective on the premises, yeah?" he asked, glancing over at Sherlock.

The detective's eyes roamed to the man he'd previously been ignoring. "John what is this stranger doing in our home?" he said, a hint of protectiveness crowding his words.

Just as John suspected. He hadn't known he'd existed. "Sherlock..." he mumbled, glaring at the man. "Sherlock, this is the new lodger, Victor Griffiths, remember?"

Holmes looked at the man long and hard, before getting up and dumping the miserable skull who wouldn't cooperate in the garbage, brushing his hands and puttering around the kitchen, quite bored. "Deleted."

John slapped his palm quietly to his face, rubbing his temple and smiling nervously at the lodger. "Sorry, he's always like this."

Victor smiled widely. "No, no, it's fine. Deleted or not... pleased to meet you, Mr. Sherlock." He gave a nod, but didn't bother to go over and try to shake his hand. Smart guy.

Sherlock ignored him, in favor of occupying himself with examining a pair of thumbs he'd gathered from the morgue, digging underneath the nails for some sort of kind of dirt.

The doctor gulped, turning back to Victor with a fright. "Um, yes, well... What's it you need again?" he said quickly, itching to block the lodger's view of his flatmate.

"Oh, well, I was sure that Mrs. Hudson had something I needed, but she didn't, so I figured I'd check here." A pause, and then he questioned, "Paint scraper?"

John racked his brain a bit until he realized he honestly didn't know. "Sherlock?" he called over, hoping his friend would have an answer.

The man ignored him.

"Sherlock...!" he said, storming into the kitchen. "Are you even listening to me? Did you even hear his question?"

John still bothering him over his experimental shoulder, Sherlock pulled out his mobile, holding it in his hand until the screen buzzed with a text message, detailing his next case with perfect clarity. "Right on time, Lestrade!" he said happily, jumping up and leaving the experiment behind.

John rolled his eyes, following Sherlock back into the living room. "If you expect me to clean all that up, you've got another thing coming!"

Sherlock slipped on his coat and pulled on his scarf, taking his riding crop and sliding his way past the unsuspecting lodger, and calling over his shoulder to John, "It's in Whitechapel. Hurry up John, we're going to be late!"

John groaned, pulling on his jacket with an apologetic look at the man. "Sorry, he's unresponsive when he's on a case."

"Heh, really, it's fine. Good luck on it, whatever it is!" He smiled again, picking at the dried paint on his sleeve.

John looked down to grab his phone, and noticed a tool bucket sitting on the table. "Ah!" he exclaimed, picking up the tool with a spin, handing it fleetingly to the dark haired man. "There's your scraper, Mr. Griffiths." He raced down the stairs, calling back, "See you later!"

The lodger barely got in a 'goodbye' before both of the men were out the front door.

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><p><strong>As always, read and review!<strong>


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